Chinese people loves salty things, soy sauce, oyster sauce, preserved vegetables. So why is it that when western foods that are naturally salty are presented, they always send it back?
Oysters, clams, steaks-- all naturally salty.
Is it a matter of discrimination? Is it a matter of bad, misinformed marketing to which Hong Kong people are so acceptable to?
Westerner smells like meat, sweat like salt, stink of animal fat. Aged steaks are too gamey. You have to remember the idea of eating artensenial steak is relatively new in this part of the world.
They blanch their clams before adding it to vongole to mix with a artifically salty sauce.
Is it the idea that hong kong people are so used to the idea of non-fresh food (nothing is homegrown here, all is imported and until recently chilled meats came to shore, before that it was all frozen meats). So much of the tastebud here are used to non-fresh, no-taste meats disguised in sauces and other flavour enhancers, that the real taste of food is still quite foreign?
Here's the kicker, salt isn't just salty, but it enhances the flavour of whatever it is put on. That is why some pastry chefs put a dash in desserts. So if Hong Kong people already do not like the natural taste of meat, then why use salt to enhance the very flavour they would rather disguise?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Sazerac
1/4 ounce (1 1/2 teaspoons) Herbsaint, absinthe or pastis
1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 dashes Angostura bitters
3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
2 ounces (1/4 cup) good rye whiskey
1 lemon, unwaxed and scrubbed.
1. Place a short rocks glass in the freezer to chill.
2. Add the Herbsaint to the chilled glass, swirl it around to give the inside of the glass a thin coating, then discard the excess.
3. Place the sugar in the bottom of a mixing glass with a few drops of water. With a wooden spoon or cocktail muddler, muddle down the sugar, add the bitters and keep muddling. Add the whiskey and stir well, until the sugar is dissolved. Add enough ice to fill the mixing glass three-quarters full and stir for about 20 seconds. Strain into the coated glass and, using a vegetable peeler or sharp knife, slice off a piece of lemon peel. Squeeze the peel’s oils over the drink and either discard the peel or drop it in the drink. Adapted from “Artisanal Cocktails” by Scott Beattie.
1/4 ounce (1 1/2 teaspoons) Herbsaint, absinthe or pastis
1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 dashes Angostura bitters
3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
2 ounces (1/4 cup) good rye whiskey
1 lemon, unwaxed and scrubbed.
1. Place a short rocks glass in the freezer to chill.
2. Add the Herbsaint to the chilled glass, swirl it around to give the inside of the glass a thin coating, then discard the excess.
3. Place the sugar in the bottom of a mixing glass with a few drops of water. With a wooden spoon or cocktail muddler, muddle down the sugar, add the bitters and keep muddling. Add the whiskey and stir well, until the sugar is dissolved. Add enough ice to fill the mixing glass three-quarters full and stir for about 20 seconds. Strain into the coated glass and, using a vegetable peeler or sharp knife, slice off a piece of lemon peel. Squeeze the peel’s oils over the drink and either discard the peel or drop it in the drink. Adapted from “Artisanal Cocktails” by Scott Beattie.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Boys are really screwing with my head. I am compromising my values to allow men to behave badly. I hear too many stories about girls who never believe the ones they are with are only withe them, and them only. It is a relief to discover there are others, just like they had always suspected. ANd then they live in misery for ever knowing there are others, maybe many more than others.
To me, it is a horrible existance, and i want no part of it. I don't want to change or be changed to suit the taste here. I'm not ok with it.
And even when a guy like Tex tells me straight up that there are others, I am slightly happy that he is being truthful, but I am worried that he is being truthful and I'm not flinching.
That is why I was never sound with Dick, I never believed him to be about me, and in the end he never was. Not because he cheated, but because I cried and cried for someone who was never in love with me.
To me, it is a horrible existance, and i want no part of it. I don't want to change or be changed to suit the taste here. I'm not ok with it.
And even when a guy like Tex tells me straight up that there are others, I am slightly happy that he is being truthful, but I am worried that he is being truthful and I'm not flinching.
That is why I was never sound with Dick, I never believed him to be about me, and in the end he never was. Not because he cheated, but because I cried and cried for someone who was never in love with me.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Barista -final
SECTIONCODE: 33-food-utt
SECTION: food
SUBSECTION: utt
HED:
SUBHED:
STARS:
P/Q: If he wants to grab coffee instead of, say, dinner or a proper drink, then he might as well say “Let’s be friends.”
W/C:
TEXT:
When a guy suggests going for coffee, I get nervous. If it’s a guy I’m interested in, and he wants to grab coffee instead of, say, dinner or a proper drink, then he might as well say “Let’s be friends.” If it’s a guy you are dating, there is a good chance he will break up with you, warns a sampling of my male friends. If it’s a guy you’ve dated, and out of the blue he wants to go for coffee, then it could go either way. He may want a part two , or he may just want to drop in to check up on you and remind you that he is an upstanding person who doesn’t discard people when a relationship end s, which of course leaves you questioning why it ever ended. So coffees, I try to avoid.
And drinking coffees I’ve avoided most of my adult life mostly because I’m a tea person –that was I until I took my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee, IFC Mall. Gabe, the grand master, was showing me how to grip a portafilter, the handle that attaches to semi-automatic and piston-driven espresso machines.
“Curl your fingers around the handle and place your thumb here for control,” Gabe directed. We loaded fresh grounds into the portafilter then packed it evenly with a stomper. “The weight comes from the shoulder with a slight bend, but don’t lock the arm.” As he was revealing the elements of a great espresso – heat, water (meticulously filtered) and pressure – I suddenly realised I had no idea what a perfect brew would look or taste like. At what point do I tell him I’m not a coffee person?
Fuel, like all coffee nazis, is pretty pedantic about quality control. Each morning the grounds and machine (in this case the Ferrari of espresso makers, La Marzocco, hand assembled in Florence, Italy) need to be adjusted according to the most miniscule changes in the air, which Gabe can instinctually sense.
My teacher submitted me to 55 bumps, grinds, and pulling bases before I achieved an acceptable cup. And several cartons of milk were used before I got something that resembled froth, not foam, in the stainless steel jug. In a typical four-week training session, each student can use more than 24 litres of milk before reaching perfection. Ideally, the steamed froth is an even-bodied, creamy milk base that pours in thickly, splitting a single shot of dark espresso which is capped with a not-too-thin, not-too-thick crema. And never, ever dot the cup with foam – real baristas don’t do that shit.
I watched the master at work. Two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a spank, a lock, a press, then magic. It’s all style and Gabe made the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a clay court, he looks like he is posing for page one. “It’s all a confidence game,” said my tutor.
He taught me to take a loud slurp from a teaspoon, drawing in the flavours of cardamom and peppercorns. Fuel’s coffee beans are grown near spice plants on an old estate in Coorg, India. And like a cabernet sauvignon grape, the beans take on the flavours of their surroundings. I also learned that freshly roasted coffee is not a desirable thing. According to the Fuel guys, coffee should be used the day after roasting and up to two weeks later, allowing the flavours to settle.
I had invited the men of my past to come by for a cup of coffee. This was a slightly suicidal move on my part because if I had to be completely honest with myself I would say I was doing one of two things: I wanted a part two or I wanted to show them I’m an upstanding person who can move beyond raw emotions and leave them with that as my legacy. But the running line of the day was a sugar-coated guilty offering of caffeine for never having made them a brew before, mostly because I didn’t know how. But that was then.
I was ecstatic to see them after a long silence, after the obstacles, after the bullshit, standing in this coffee bar, I knew we were cool. Gabe, sensing the change in the air, and let me take my break. I made them my best brew, to the exacting degree taught, Angie’s perfect one-day training espresso. Lingering over a cup at the counter we sensed we’ve changed but we're still the same, so far from where we've been, it’s a miracle that we can sit and sip together today.
Want to learn the art of coffee-making? Time Out Hong Kong has arranged two special workshops at Fuel Espresso, IFC Mall, at 2pm on Saturday, Aug 1 and 8. To participate, email angie.wong@timeout.com.hk with “coffee workshop” in the subject line. The first 10 entries received will be invited to take part. Please state your preferred date. Workshops last about one hour.
SECTION: food
SUBSECTION: utt
HED:
SUBHED:
STARS:
P/Q: If he wants to grab coffee instead of, say, dinner or a proper drink, then he might as well say “Let’s be friends.”
W/C:
TEXT:
When a guy suggests going for coffee, I get nervous. If it’s a guy I’m interested in, and he wants to grab coffee instead of, say, dinner or a proper drink, then he might as well say “Let’s be friends.” If it’s a guy you are dating, there is a good chance he will break up with you, warns a sampling of my male friends. If it’s a guy you’ve dated, and out of the blue he wants to go for coffee, then it could go either way. He may want a part two , or he may just want to drop in to check up on you and remind you that he is an upstanding person who doesn’t discard people when a relationship end s, which of course leaves you questioning why it ever ended. So coffees, I try to avoid.
And drinking coffees I’ve avoided most of my adult life mostly because I’m a tea person –that was I until I took my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee, IFC Mall. Gabe, the grand master, was showing me how to grip a portafilter, the handle that attaches to semi-automatic and piston-driven espresso machines.
“Curl your fingers around the handle and place your thumb here for control,” Gabe directed. We loaded fresh grounds into the portafilter then packed it evenly with a stomper. “The weight comes from the shoulder with a slight bend, but don’t lock the arm.” As he was revealing the elements of a great espresso – heat, water (meticulously filtered) and pressure – I suddenly realised I had no idea what a perfect brew would look or taste like. At what point do I tell him I’m not a coffee person?
Fuel, like all coffee nazis, is pretty pedantic about quality control. Each morning the grounds and machine (in this case the Ferrari of espresso makers, La Marzocco, hand assembled in Florence, Italy) need to be adjusted according to the most miniscule changes in the air, which Gabe can instinctually sense.
My teacher submitted me to 55 bumps, grinds, and pulling bases before I achieved an acceptable cup. And several cartons of milk were used before I got something that resembled froth, not foam, in the stainless steel jug. In a typical four-week training session, each student can use more than 24 litres of milk before reaching perfection. Ideally, the steamed froth is an even-bodied, creamy milk base that pours in thickly, splitting a single shot of dark espresso which is capped with a not-too-thin, not-too-thick crema. And never, ever dot the cup with foam – real baristas don’t do that shit.
I watched the master at work. Two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a spank, a lock, a press, then magic. It’s all style and Gabe made the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a clay court, he looks like he is posing for page one. “It’s all a confidence game,” said my tutor.
He taught me to take a loud slurp from a teaspoon, drawing in the flavours of cardamom and peppercorns. Fuel’s coffee beans are grown near spice plants on an old estate in Coorg, India. And like a cabernet sauvignon grape, the beans take on the flavours of their surroundings. I also learned that freshly roasted coffee is not a desirable thing. According to the Fuel guys, coffee should be used the day after roasting and up to two weeks later, allowing the flavours to settle.
I had invited the men of my past to come by for a cup of coffee. This was a slightly suicidal move on my part because if I had to be completely honest with myself I would say I was doing one of two things: I wanted a part two or I wanted to show them I’m an upstanding person who can move beyond raw emotions and leave them with that as my legacy. But the running line of the day was a sugar-coated guilty offering of caffeine for never having made them a brew before, mostly because I didn’t know how. But that was then.
I was ecstatic to see them after a long silence, after the obstacles, after the bullshit, standing in this coffee bar, I knew we were cool. Gabe, sensing the change in the air, and let me take my break. I made them my best brew, to the exacting degree taught, Angie’s perfect one-day training espresso. Lingering over a cup at the counter we sensed we’ve changed but we're still the same, so far from where we've been, it’s a miracle that we can sit and sip together today.
Want to learn the art of coffee-making? Time Out Hong Kong has arranged two special workshops at Fuel Espresso, IFC Mall, at 2pm on Saturday, Aug 1 and 8. To participate, email angie.wong@timeout.com.hk with “coffee workshop” in the subject line. The first 10 entries received will be invited to take part. Please state your preferred date. Workshops last about one hour.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Barista
My first real crush was on my tennis coach John. I was eleven and even then I knew I liked older men. He drove a beat up Porsche, wore basketball shorts, and nicknamed me pornstar on the court. He made more money per hour than most of my dad's finance friends and he never graduated from highschool. He was my preteen rebellion love.
I practiced everyday and join the junior varsity tennis team to impress him. I wore matching socks and sweatbands to impress him. I served 76 miles per hour balls to impress him. I wanted him so badly.
One day his girlfriend walked on the court wearing a full length mink coat. She was mallified gorgeous with juicy red lips and big overdone hair. What did he see in trash? I aimed balls at her head as she would walk off the court. The more I hated her, the harder I played. Then one day I saw her kiss him and I ran home to cry. It was then I dropped tennis altogether. He was my everything-- until New Kids on the Block came along.
I haven’t thought about John in decades, until one day when I was taking my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee at IFC. Gabe, the grand master of ceremony was giving me a show on how to make the perfect cup. He was coaching me how to grip a portafilter, the handle that attaches to semi-automatic and piston-driven espresso machines. “Curl your fingers around the handle and place your thumb here for control.” We load fresh grounds into the portafilter then pack it evenly with a stomper. “The weight comes from the shoulder with a slightly bent, but don’t lock the arm.” As he was teaching me the elements of a great espresso: Heat, water (meticulatiously filtered water)and pressure, I had a realisation: I have no idea what a perfect brew would look or taste like. At what point do I tell him I’m not a coffee person?
Fuel, like all aficionados, is a bit Nazi-ish about quality control. Each morning the grounds and pull need to be adjusted to the miniscule change in the air. Now I can understand this Nazi behaviour. I share the same degree of obessiveness when it comes to tea, and at the moment that is Taiwanese golden oolong. They let me go through 55 bump-grind-pulling bases before getting the perfect cup. And I used up a few cartons of milk to get something that resembled a froth, not foam, in the jug. In a typical four week training session, each student could use more than 24 litres of milk before perfection. And what a perfect froth looks like is an even bodied milk, creamy, and pours in thick splitting the espresso that’s not-too-thin, not-too-thick with crema on top , but never cap the mixture with foam. Real barista don’t do that kind of nonsense.
A loud slurp with the teaspoon draws in the flavours of cardamom and peppercorns. The coffee beans they use is grown in Coorg, India, on an old estate near spice plants. And like a sauvignon grape, it takes on the flavours of its surrounding.
As I was practicing my new craft, I could imagine myself doing this. I fantasised about quitting my day job to work behind the coffee bar where I could play with the Ferrari of espresso maker s the “La Marzocco” handmade in Florence, Italy, all day long.
Here’s another thing I learnt—freshly roasted coffee is not a good thing. Coffee, according to these guys, should use used the day after roasting, and up to two weeks later, so the flavours have time to settle.
To be a journalist is to bear witness, and I am watching a master at work; two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a spank, a lock, a press, then magic. It’s all style and Gabe makes the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a grass court, he looks like he is posing for page one doing it. Gabe says: “it’s all a confidence game.”
By invitation, I had invited the men of Angie’s past to come by for a coffee. This was spear-headed by guilt for never having been able to offer them a brew in the morning, mostly because I didn’t know how. But that was then.
I was ecstatic to see them after a long silence; after all our obstacles, after all the bullshit, standing in this coffee bar, I knew we were cool. Gabe, sensing the change in the air, let me take my break. I made them my best brew, almost to the exacting degree taught, Angie’s perfect one-day training espresso. Sitting at the counter we sensed we’ve changed but we're still the same, so far from where we've been before. It’s a miracle that we can sit and sip today.
I practiced everyday and join the junior varsity tennis team to impress him. I wore matching socks and sweatbands to impress him. I served 76 miles per hour balls to impress him. I wanted him so badly.
One day his girlfriend walked on the court wearing a full length mink coat. She was mallified gorgeous with juicy red lips and big overdone hair. What did he see in trash? I aimed balls at her head as she would walk off the court. The more I hated her, the harder I played. Then one day I saw her kiss him and I ran home to cry. It was then I dropped tennis altogether. He was my everything-- until New Kids on the Block came along.
I haven’t thought about John in decades, until one day when I was taking my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee at IFC. Gabe, the grand master of ceremony was giving me a show on how to make the perfect cup. He was coaching me how to grip a portafilter, the handle that attaches to semi-automatic and piston-driven espresso machines. “Curl your fingers around the handle and place your thumb here for control.” We load fresh grounds into the portafilter then pack it evenly with a stomper. “The weight comes from the shoulder with a slightly bent, but don’t lock the arm.” As he was teaching me the elements of a great espresso: Heat, water (meticulatiously filtered water)and pressure, I had a realisation: I have no idea what a perfect brew would look or taste like. At what point do I tell him I’m not a coffee person?
Fuel, like all aficionados, is a bit Nazi-ish about quality control. Each morning the grounds and pull need to be adjusted to the miniscule change in the air. Now I can understand this Nazi behaviour. I share the same degree of obessiveness when it comes to tea, and at the moment that is Taiwanese golden oolong. They let me go through 55 bump-grind-pulling bases before getting the perfect cup. And I used up a few cartons of milk to get something that resembled a froth, not foam, in the jug. In a typical four week training session, each student could use more than 24 litres of milk before perfection. And what a perfect froth looks like is an even bodied milk, creamy, and pours in thick splitting the espresso that’s not-too-thin, not-too-thick with crema on top , but never cap the mixture with foam. Real barista don’t do that kind of nonsense.
A loud slurp with the teaspoon draws in the flavours of cardamom and peppercorns. The coffee beans they use is grown in Coorg, India, on an old estate near spice plants. And like a sauvignon grape, it takes on the flavours of its surrounding.
As I was practicing my new craft, I could imagine myself doing this. I fantasised about quitting my day job to work behind the coffee bar where I could play with the Ferrari of espresso maker s the “La Marzocco” handmade in Florence, Italy, all day long.
Here’s another thing I learnt—freshly roasted coffee is not a good thing. Coffee, according to these guys, should use used the day after roasting, and up to two weeks later, so the flavours have time to settle.
To be a journalist is to bear witness, and I am watching a master at work; two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a spank, a lock, a press, then magic. It’s all style and Gabe makes the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a grass court, he looks like he is posing for page one doing it. Gabe says: “it’s all a confidence game.”
By invitation, I had invited the men of Angie’s past to come by for a coffee. This was spear-headed by guilt for never having been able to offer them a brew in the morning, mostly because I didn’t know how. But that was then.
I was ecstatic to see them after a long silence; after all our obstacles, after all the bullshit, standing in this coffee bar, I knew we were cool. Gabe, sensing the change in the air, let me take my break. I made them my best brew, almost to the exacting degree taught, Angie’s perfect one-day training espresso. Sitting at the counter we sensed we’ve changed but we're still the same, so far from where we've been before. It’s a miracle that we can sit and sip today.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Barista
My first real crush was on my tennis coach John. I was eleven and even then I knew I liked older men. He drove a beat up Porsche, wore basketball shorts, and nicknamed me pornstar on the court. He made more money per hour than most of my dad's finance friends and he never graduated from highschool. He was my preteen rebellion love.
I practiced everyday and join the junior varsity tennis team to impress him. I wore matching socks and sweatbands to impress him. I served 76 miles per hour balls to impress him. I wanted him badly.
One day his girlfriend walked on the court wearing a full length mink coat. She was gorgeous with juicy red lips and big overdone hair. What did he see in this piece of trash? I aimed balls at her head as she would walk off the court. The more I hated her, the harder I played. Then one day I saw her kiss him and ran home to cry. Shortly after I dropped tennis altogether. He was my everything-- until New Kids on the Block came along.
I haven’t thought about him since until one day I was getting my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee. Gabe, the grand master of ceremony was giving me a free lesson on the art of coffee. He was teaching me how to hold a grip of the XXX. “Curl your fingers around the bar and place your thumb here for control. The weight comes from the shoulder with a slightly bent, but not locked arms. Use your shoulder to give you leverage.” I give it a squeeze then slam. I think it was the way he stood behind me to teach me how to grip.
He was teaching me the mechanic to making the perfect cup, when I had a realization: I have no idea what a perfect would look or taste like. I wondered: at what point do I tell these guys I’m a tea person?
My first lesson was to learn the elements of a great espresso: Heat, pressure, and XXX. Fuel, like all aficionados, are a bit Nazi-ish about quality control. They let me go through 55 tries before getting the perfect cup. I used up a few cartons of milk to get the fluff just right.
Now I can understand this Nazi behaviour. I share the same degree of obessiveness when it comes to tea, and at the moment that is Taiwanese golden oolong.
He walks me through the lamborginis of espresso makers, the XXXX. Other than human skills, everything happens inside this machine to spit out a perfect cup of dark, aromatic espresso with a not-too-thin, not-too-thick crema on top. A quick and loud slurp with the teaspoon reveals flavours of caramon and peppercorns. The coffee beans they use is grown in XXXX, on a XXX year old estate near spice plants. And like a sauvignon grape, it takes on the flavours of its surrounding.
As I was practicing my new craft, I could imagine myself doing this. It’s a training trick. Picture yourself doing it, and then you can kick a ball 100 meters. I fantasized myself quitting my day job to work behind the coffee bar, where I greeted my customers with a hot brew before they even order it, where I would smell the intoxic aroma of roasted beans everyday, where I could play with the machines I’m now getting comfortable with.
It’s all in the speed of the pour (26 second in this case), the thickness and colour of the drip (a dark stream to a lite thick density), and the patting of the grounds (perfectly flat or else the water will take the path of least resistance and fuck up the whole cup.)
Here’s another thing I learnt—freshly roasted coffee is not a good thing. Coffee, according to these guys, should use used 5-12 days after roasting so the flavours have time to settle
To be a journalist is to bear witness, and I am watching a master at work, two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a lock, a button, then magic. All done in the most stylish manner and sex appeal available with coffee grinds and a XXX stick. You can understand why someone would want to be him.
It’s all in the style. The style of the bang, the button, the pour makes the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a clay court, he looks like he is having sex doing it. Gabe says: it’s all a confidence game.
Milky drinks are most popular in Hong Kong, but it will be another three weeks before I can even touch milk as the training is intense. “But I can give you a short introduction,” he said. And as I was frothing my first jug of cold milk, angling it with my forearm rather than my wrist, the first of a series of exes comes for a visit.
Now this was by invitation. I had invited every guy I’ve ever gotten with in Hong Kong to come by for a cup on me. This is brought on by guilt for never having never offered them a cup of Joe, mostly because I didn’t know how. So one by one, I was finally able to make them a cup.
I practiced everyday and join the junior varsity tennis team to impress him. I wore matching socks and sweatbands to impress him. I served 76 miles per hour balls to impress him. I wanted him badly.
One day his girlfriend walked on the court wearing a full length mink coat. She was gorgeous with juicy red lips and big overdone hair. What did he see in this piece of trash? I aimed balls at her head as she would walk off the court. The more I hated her, the harder I played. Then one day I saw her kiss him and ran home to cry. Shortly after I dropped tennis altogether. He was my everything-- until New Kids on the Block came along.
I haven’t thought about him since until one day I was getting my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee. Gabe, the grand master of ceremony was giving me a free lesson on the art of coffee. He was teaching me how to hold a grip of the XXX. “Curl your fingers around the bar and place your thumb here for control. The weight comes from the shoulder with a slightly bent, but not locked arms. Use your shoulder to give you leverage.” I give it a squeeze then slam. I think it was the way he stood behind me to teach me how to grip.
He was teaching me the mechanic to making the perfect cup, when I had a realization: I have no idea what a perfect would look or taste like. I wondered: at what point do I tell these guys I’m a tea person?
My first lesson was to learn the elements of a great espresso: Heat, pressure, and XXX. Fuel, like all aficionados, are a bit Nazi-ish about quality control. They let me go through 55 tries before getting the perfect cup. I used up a few cartons of milk to get the fluff just right.
Now I can understand this Nazi behaviour. I share the same degree of obessiveness when it comes to tea, and at the moment that is Taiwanese golden oolong.
He walks me through the lamborginis of espresso makers, the XXXX. Other than human skills, everything happens inside this machine to spit out a perfect cup of dark, aromatic espresso with a not-too-thin, not-too-thick crema on top. A quick and loud slurp with the teaspoon reveals flavours of caramon and peppercorns. The coffee beans they use is grown in XXXX, on a XXX year old estate near spice plants. And like a sauvignon grape, it takes on the flavours of its surrounding.
As I was practicing my new craft, I could imagine myself doing this. It’s a training trick. Picture yourself doing it, and then you can kick a ball 100 meters. I fantasized myself quitting my day job to work behind the coffee bar, where I greeted my customers with a hot brew before they even order it, where I would smell the intoxic aroma of roasted beans everyday, where I could play with the machines I’m now getting comfortable with.
It’s all in the speed of the pour (26 second in this case), the thickness and colour of the drip (a dark stream to a lite thick density), and the patting of the grounds (perfectly flat or else the water will take the path of least resistance and fuck up the whole cup.)
Here’s another thing I learnt—freshly roasted coffee is not a good thing. Coffee, according to these guys, should use used 5-12 days after roasting so the flavours have time to settle
To be a journalist is to bear witness, and I am watching a master at work, two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a lock, a button, then magic. All done in the most stylish manner and sex appeal available with coffee grinds and a XXX stick. You can understand why someone would want to be him.
It’s all in the style. The style of the bang, the button, the pour makes the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a clay court, he looks like he is having sex doing it. Gabe says: it’s all a confidence game.
Milky drinks are most popular in Hong Kong, but it will be another three weeks before I can even touch milk as the training is intense. “But I can give you a short introduction,” he said. And as I was frothing my first jug of cold milk, angling it with my forearm rather than my wrist, the first of a series of exes comes for a visit.
Now this was by invitation. I had invited every guy I’ve ever gotten with in Hong Kong to come by for a cup on me. This is brought on by guilt for never having never offered them a cup of Joe, mostly because I didn’t know how. So one by one, I was finally able to make them a cup.
Friday, July 3, 2009
But the reality is this; my mind is bored, so I cause trouble. There is nothing challenging me here, nothing new, nothing different, nothing stimulating.
The shops are all the same, in every mallification around the world. In every city, though this one especially is boring and unoriginal, trying to catch up with the rest of the world, so it could never be called a second rate city. But it is missing one crutcal element, and that is entertaining the minds of youngsters to be less like others and more like themselves. Less to live up to international , and more home grown pride, which from what I can observe does little exist here.
You see the dismay on the faces of its people, frowns on passerbyers, taxis taking the powerseat of running down people, cars not allowing others to pass. There is no respect for one another, it is cultural. And until tha mindset begins to change, nothing, i mean nothing, good will happen here.
The shops are all the same, in every mallification around the world. In every city, though this one especially is boring and unoriginal, trying to catch up with the rest of the world, so it could never be called a second rate city. But it is missing one crutcal element, and that is entertaining the minds of youngsters to be less like others and more like themselves. Less to live up to international , and more home grown pride, which from what I can observe does little exist here.
You see the dismay on the faces of its people, frowns on passerbyers, taxis taking the powerseat of running down people, cars not allowing others to pass. There is no respect for one another, it is cultural. And until tha mindset begins to change, nothing, i mean nothing, good will happen here.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A note to self
Just remember the quality of guys outside of Asia is so much more. They treatment women with respect and don't cheat.
Dick
Why would he try to make me feel better? What did it matter now? Was it for his own relieve? His own guilt? Did he receive pleasure from relaxing my pain? My scared nature. One that I hid with a smile and laugh? One of embarassment and shame and pride? Did he see right through it? Was he laughing with his friends? Or does he actually care, about me?
He wanted to protect me. He wanted to save me from my thoughts and fears. Fears he shared and had himself "For tow weeks I had prison nightmares".
ALl this to say the one thing he never could when we were together. That he cared for me. He loved me. But he was too scared, and too strapped to the idea of what that would mean, and what I would expect of him.
Why would he try to make me feel better? What did it matter now? Was it for his own relieve? His own guilt? Did he receive pleasure from relaxing my pain? My scared nature. One that I hid with a smile and laugh? One of embarassment and shame and pride? Did he see right through it? Was he laughing with his friends? Or does he actually care, about me?
He wanted to protect me. He wanted to save me from my thoughts and fears. Fears he shared and had himself "For tow weeks I had prison nightmares".
ALl this to say the one thing he never could when we were together. That he cared for me. He loved me. But he was too scared, and too strapped to the idea of what that would mean, and what I would expect of him.
Peter
He would always say how he loved to see me cry. And I cried alot for him, in front of him, but mostly in solo. He thought I looked sweet and helpless. And I was so pretty when I cried. Because I cried mostly for him. Because I cared so much fo rhim, that I couldn't hold in my tears, not in front of him. That my emotions were so raw and undisguised. I cried, tears of utter love and truth because I loved him so much. To this day I love him so much.
He would always say how he loved to see me cry. And I cried alot for him, in front of him, but mostly in solo. He thought I looked sweet and helpless. And I was so pretty when I cried. Because I cried mostly for him. Because I cared so much fo rhim, that I couldn't hold in my tears, not in front of him. That my emotions were so raw and undisguised. I cried, tears of utter love and truth because I loved him so much. To this day I love him so much.
The more sorrow you have, the deeper you love.
I don't think I've ever felt so lonely. The more I ground myself, the more time I have to be by myself, the more time I have to think The more I think, the more I realise how lonely I am.
I've destracted myself enough. If I keep to the bottleI will forget.
I have friends and love ones.
I don't think I've ever felt so lonely. The more I ground myself, the more time I have to be by myself, the more time I have to think The more I think, the more I realise how lonely I am.
I've destracted myself enough. If I keep to the bottleI will forget.
I have friends and love ones.
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